


got some fiends inside my head that can't be trusted

by badwolfgrapesoda



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Demon Deals, F/F, Faeries & Fae, Incisor Rooms Verse, alternative title: Max's obsession with hands and mouths ft. some OB characters, im still such trash for this au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 17:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12370122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfgrapesoda/pseuds/badwolfgrapesoda
Summary: Maybe she is that desperate, Rachel thinks with weary resignation.





	got some fiends inside my head that can't be trusted

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [House of Teeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020454) by [piggy09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggy09/pseuds/piggy09). 



> SOOOO apparently I can't leave this universe alone lol. This one's from Rachel's POV and features sad Rachel, surprisingly seductive Helena, and in there for 2 seconds Sarah. TWs for violence, some mild(ish?) gore, blood and some swears.

Rachel sits in her white bed and thinks about feast days, about bellies distended and full, faces wet and dripping. Sometimes they’d be half deaf for the rest of the day, their ears still ringing from the screams. She runs her finger over the rim of her wine glass, admiring the redness of the alcohol. If she were human, she muses, she’d probably make some trite comparison to blood, but there’s really only a small similarity of hue. As much as she seems to subsist on it now, one can’t live off wine, but blood… She tips her head back and closes her eyes, allowing herself a brief moment of weakness, remembering. Thick, dark richness that clogged her mouth and stained her tongue. She used to feed them mangoes before they ran, to make it sweeter. It pleased her when they mistook the gesture for kindness, but it pleased her even better when they knew, and begged for mercy, shivering like aspen trees in the wind.

Rachel’s stomach twists with memory. She digs her nails into her side. She’s seen Helena biting at her own arms and licking them, when she thinks no one’s watching. Rachel’s not quite that desperate yet.

She hears soft footsteps in the hallway, and then an even softer sucking sound, the same sound they used to make when they cleaned the mango juice off their hands. Perhaps it’s that that makes her get to her feet and open the door, a little more eager than she likes to be in front of the other occupants of this house.

Helena freezes, fingers shoved in her mouth, saliva dribbling down her wrist. Her pupils are dilated.

“Hello, Rachel,” she mumbles, and something in her face whispers _guilty, guilty, guilty_. “I did not think you were listening.”

“I could hardly help hearing your slobbering, Helena,” Rachel says tartly, and snaps her fingers. “Show me.”

Reluctantly, Helena offers up her other hand, still streaked with drying blood.

“Is that –“

“Sarah slipped,” Helena says.

Rachel swallows the tremble in her throat and smoothes down her dress with a firm movement that feels like she’s tethering herself to the ground. She’s almost surprised by how much she aches for what Helena has. She has a lightning-quick thought of tearing Helena’s arm off at the elbow and scuttling away with her prize, and then is appalled with how easily the idea comes to her, of abandoning her dignity like some sort of… Helena. She’s been here for far too long.

“Rachel?”

Too late, Rachel realises that she’s been standing rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed to Helena’s painted hand. She tears her gaze away, but she knows her desire was naked on her face.

“You want some, Rachel?” Helena says, her fingers almost brushing Rachel’s lips, her eyes glinting with a savage, coiled excitement.

Rachel recognises this for the power play that it is, tries to remind herself of all the times when Helena’s traipsed in and attacked her dinner without any pretence of cleanliness, her limbs caked in sweat and dirt. The fingers still look horribly appetising. Maybe she is that desperate, she thinks with weary resignation.

Rachel reaches for Helena, but she rips her hand away so fast that Rachel’s nails graze her palm.

“Such bad manners,” Helena grins, her teeth gleaming too-white and sharp. Rachel thinks of the tools she used to have on The Island, thinks of telling Helena to smile nice and wide, then prying those teeth out one by one.

“I want it,” Rachel says, picturing pressing her thumb into Helena’s empty, swollen gums. “If you’re trying to make me beg you’ll be disappointed.”

She reaches again for Helena’s hand and is rewarded by a low snarl.

“Do not grab,” Helena chides, and traces Rachel’s lower lip with the tip of her index finger. This time Rachel understands what she wants, and reconciles herself to losing the last of her pride as she leans in and gently wraps her lips around Helena’s finger.

The blood – Sarah’s blood, she thinks with a thrill of satisfaction – dissolves on her tongue and Rachel groans before she can stop herself, revelling in the flavour. It tastes like Sarah, all defiance and self-destruction and rough, buried yearning.

For a moment, it’s worth it.

“Look at you,” Helena croons, and brushes the pad of her thumb against Rachel’s chin, dislodging dried flakes of blood. “Very pretty dirty sexy Rachel.” She puckers her lips and sucks in her cheeks with a squeaky sound that is reminiscent of a deflating balloon.

Fury rips through Rachel’s body, so hot that it feels like her insides are being vaporised. She bites down hard and spits Helena’s finger onto the floor, where it lands with a wet splat.

Helena wails, a thin, rattling sonar call that swells until it crashes into the edges of the house. She’s curled into herself, shielding her mutilated hand. Her eyes are wet and hard.

Rachel can feel a headache coming on. “Don’t be so tiresome, Helena,” she says. “It’ll grow back.”

Helena glares and spits on Rachel’s shoe, her face flushed with pain.

“Fucks _sakes_ ” says a horrified voice from behind them. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

A panicky feeling flutters in Rachel’s throat, the feeling she gets when things aren’t going to plan. It’s been happening rather a lot lately. Of course Sarah is here now. She seems to have a particular knack for walking in when Rachel’s losing control.

“No need to worry, Sarah,” she says mildly, and clenches her fists to keep them from shaking. “This does not concern you.”

“She’s missing a _finger_ , Rachel,” Sarah says. She sounds faintly sick.

“It is fine, Sarah,” Helena croaks, lifting her head so that Sarah can see the shine of her eyes. “Go back downstairs. I will come find you.”

Sarah’s nostrils flare, and for a moment she looks like she’s about to tell them both exactly how not-fine it is, but then she just chews her lip and clumps off.

Rachel can feel her mouth pressing into a thin line. More and more, it is becoming evident who Sarah is going to choose, and she doesn’t understand why Sarah would want a filthy creature with no table manners or concept of personal space. She doesn’t understand why Sarah doesn’t just say it and put all three of them out of their misery. She wants to go after Sarah and trace the line of that angry vein in her neck. She wants to bite that gnawed spot on Sarah’s lip and drain her, then fill her body with that golden three-drink-feeling until she forgets why she likes Helena, until she forgets that there is a Helena at all.

Instead she stands perfectly still, while Sarah disappears downstairs. She stays still while Helena collects her finger and scuttles off to lick her wounds and be comforted. She stands like a statue as the shadows deepen and move through the house, imagining the points of her heels continuing up her legs and building her a new spine, one that won’t snap or give.

Perhaps if she makes the choice to remain here unmoving, it won’t feel like she’s being left behind.

 

 


End file.
